


Star-gazing

by stormthedarkcity



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23872366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormthedarkcity/pseuds/stormthedarkcity
Summary: Zevran keeps Alistair company as he wakes up from a taint-fuelled nightmare.
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai
Comments: 36
Kudos: 81





	Star-gazing

**Author's Note:**

> This was written to fill a prompt for suchanadorer on [tumblr](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/post/616538021784928256/)

After the Deep Roads, the nightmares seem to visit Alistair twice as often as they used to. They get messier, more urgent, they carry flashes of rotting teeth and crazed eyes shining in the darkness below. But despite knowing they’ll surely come, he still eagerly goes to sleep night after night, exhausted by their travels and fighting, and forgetting himself in the depth of the fade until the darkspawn in his mind come to drag him into their horrors, piling up onto his chest until he can no longer breathe.

He chokes onto damp air and onto his own tongue; he thrusts his hand forward, hoping to grab a genlock at the throat, only to find soft fabric on warm skin. He closes his fist around it and pulls to the side, but, as the weight over him moves, urgent whispers tear him away from his nightmare.

“Alistair– Alistair! It is only me!” 

Alistair gasps as the world comes back to him in a rush, and he takes it all in at once — the sweat making his shirt stick to his torso, the painfully strong beat of his heart, and, at his side in the darkness of the tent, a dishevelled Zevran holding him by the wrist. He lets go of his shirt.

“Zev– Maker– I’m sorry.” Alistair’s voice comes out hoarse, his breath short.

Zevran sits on his heels as he smoothes his hair back, and then says mildly, as though he hasn't just gotten assaulted by a sleeping man, “no need to apologise.”

“Is It my shift yet?”

“Yes, that is why I am here, but come, I’ll keep you company until you feel ready to take care of it alone.”

“You don’t– you don’t have to…”

Zevran clicks his tongue. “I do not wish to leave you alone in this state. Nightmares cling to your skin with remarkable determination, do they not?” 

Alistair nods. “Thank you, Zev.” 

“Come now. Let us get you some fresh air, hmm?”

Alistair follows him through the narrow opening of his tent and takes in a deep, blissfully cool lungful of air. The almost-full moon is shining soft light over the sleeping camp, not quite strong enough that he trusts himself to walk at a normal pace on the uneven ground, but just enough that he sees Zevran’s profile by the long-dead fire. He carefully makes his way to him and sits on the dry, tainted grass next to him.

The heat of his nightmare falls all at once, leaving behind only the dampness at the back of his shirt, and he shivers violently. Zevran glances at him with a frown, before fishing something behind himself and handing it silently to him.

It’s a blanket. _His_ blanket. Too small for Alistair, and far too thin for Ferelden weather; he takes it anyway with a thanks that comes out as a silent breath, and wraps himself in it. His fingers find the corner of it, where a small, messy Z is embroidered in shiny golden thread. He thumbs at the fabric next to it, the part that’s frayed, as though part of the embroidery had been unceremoniously ripped out.

He’s noticed it before, noticed how Zevran looked at it sometimes, when he’s undoing his pack and thinks no one is looking at him. He’s never asked him about it, though; as curious as he is about Zevran’s past, he knows by experience he’s unlikely to get a straight-forward answer, and might actually be trapping them both into a situation from which Zevran had probably rather metaphorically gnaw his own leg free — and Alistair’s — than have to bare his soul.

He presses the embroidered piece of fabric between his thumb and forefinger, picturing the small Z imprinting itself into his skin and staying there. It’s a reassuring image, somehow. At his side, Zevran’s head is tipped back, his free hair tumbling off his shoulders. Alistair follows his gaze, finding softly shimmering stars splattered everywhere across the clear sky. He feels his breath slow down at the mere vision of them — or maybe it’s because of the unusually calm energy coming from Zevran.

“I have not stopped to look at the stars in far too long,” Zevran murmurs. It’s so soft Alistair isn’t sure whether he’s meant to have heard it until Zevran turns his gaze to him, lips curled up into the slightest of smiles.

Alistair clears his throat, pulling the thin blanket tighter around himself. “You used to…stargaze?”

He watches Zevran’s gaze slip away again, and his attention get lost upward once more.

“Yes.” His voice is clipped. “Is that so strange?”

“No, I don’t know, I just…” Alistair wishes to be careful about the topic of Zevran’s past, but he _did_ bring it up himself, didn’t he? “I don’t know much about how it used to be for you with the Crows, but I sort of assumed that you wouldn’t have time for… anything like that.”

Zevran is silent for a few moments, and Alistair wonders whether this is the end of this conversation. But then Zevran starts speaking without looking at him, his tone mild, although there’s something in it that makes Alistair think he’s rarely that candid about his past.

“For some of their training,” he says, “young Crows are not permitted to leave the warehouse for weeks at a time. Those places get terribly hot in the summer, and the smell of fish from the nearby port permeates every wall, every piece of clothing, it seeps into one’s hair and under one’s nails, and one has no way of escaping it. So I took to climbing onto the roof, at night. The smell and heat are much less intense up there.”

Alistair tries to keep his eyes on the stars — which he genuinely likes watching, he does! — but his gaze keeps wandering back to Zevran’s profile, to how neutral his expression is, apart from the occasional squeeze of his jaw.

“And when the sky is clear,” Zevran continues, voice growing dreamy, “which is most nights, in Antiva — one can see stars after stars after stars, stretching forever, all around you. They pull you upward among them. One can almost forget one’s life circumstances, up there.” He snorts, but it’s a sad sound. “Well, at least until being found out. As it happens, Crow wranglers do not support the stretching of their careful rules.”

Alistair suppresses a shiver at the casual way in which Zevran uses the word _wrangler_ , as though it’s very natural to be considered livestock. He finds himself rather eager to move past that feeling, so he digs into his own past for a story.

“The Chantry tried to teach me the constellations,” he suddenly remembers, “but I didn’t really– well, I didn’t get to see them myself much, they were just ink dots on a page to me, so I didn’t really... focus on those lessons. I didn’t see the point.” He laughs. “I’m starting to regret it now, because I’d be incapable of even telling you where North is from the stars, and it would probably have saved us a few wrong turns and wasted miles of walking.”

Zevran laughs, and it’s one of his most relaxed laughs, one Alistair has only heard when it’s just the two of them. And then he looks at Alistair, just from the corner of his eye, without lowering his head, and Alistair is glad for the relative cover of darkness when that one glance makes him feel warm from the depth of his chest to the tip of his ears. Zevran’s eyes slip away from his once more. Alistair knows he ought to stop staring, ought to scout back a little, maybe; but he can’t seem to make himself do either of those.

“You can still learn,” Zevran muses, eye skittering across the starry sky.

His tongue swipes over his lips. Alistair swallows.

_Learn? Oh, right, the constellations._

“Hmm. I guess,” Alistair says.

Zevran’s eyes flutter to him again, so quickly it’s almost as though he’s imagined it.

“Next time we pass by a town, come with me, yes? I am certain we can find some sort of book on the subject. We can study together, if you wish it so.”

Alistair snorts a little bitterly, pulling his blanket closer. “Morrigan will never let me live it down if I buy yet another book.” He means to sound more joking than whining, but he misses the mark and winces.

Zevran tuts. “Morrigan is not carrying your pack, is she?” There’s annoyance in his voice, but then it flattens out into teasing levity as he continues: “Not to mention, it is for a very good cause.” He raises a hand to his forehead and lets himself dramatically fall on his back in the grass. “I could not possibly handle more wrong turns because you cannot orient yourself from the stars! My feet are killing me!”

Alistair laughs, bright and surprised, turning his body to face Zevran, whose eyes are hidden by his arm as he lays on the ground.

“Well then, if it’s to save your poor, sensitive feet! We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.

Zevran hums his approval and enthusiastically nods, hair dragging in the grass. Alistair fights the urge to run his hands through that hair to make sure it doesn’t stay tangled.

“Exactly,” Zevran says, letting his arm fall and looking up at him. His eyes seem to shine in the moonlight, and Alistair wonders if what he’s heard about elves’ eyes glowing when it’s night is true. Zevran purses his lips in a pout that is frankly — and probably purposefully — adorable. “Otherwise, you might have to massage me next time we stop.” He ignores Alistair’s short, nervous laughter, and he presses on: “I would not impose such a thing on you, but you do have very _strong_ arms which I am certain could give the most wonderful of massages.” He sighs wistfully. “It is getting harder by the day to resist asking for such a thing, my friend, Alistair.”

Alistair’s breath feels shaky. His whole body feels shaky. Zevran is looking up at him with that cheeky smile of his, and all Alistair can do is nod, and then shake his head, and nod again.

“Is that–” He bites his lip. Hard. “Are you..?” That’s not a full question. He has no clue where he’s going with that sentence. He breathes in. “I don’t... I don’t know anything about these things,” he says, fast and low, and it’s easier in the dark, “but sometimes I think you’re flirting with me. That, or you’re determined to make me squirm.”

Zevran rises on his elbows. His smile settles, from teasing to a more tentative expression. Like he’s… unsure. His gaze searches Alistair’s face.

“How would you feel about that?” he asks mildly.

_Does that mean...? Could that mean...?_

Alistair clears his throat, choosing to wilfully misunderstand him rather than running the risk of looking like a fool.

“Squirming? _Hate_ squirming. I’ve done enough of that in my life. Big anti-squirming militant over here.”

“Flirting,” Zevran corrects, and his gaze gets sharp even though his position is relaxed, which sends all sorts of mixed signals and doesn’t help Alistair in the slightest.

He looks down to where his hands are holding the blanket around his body, and then his eyes flutter back to Zevran on their own accord. He can’t tell whether he’s imagining the vibration he feels coursing through his body, and he _really_ can’t tell whether it’s a pleasant feeling or not.

“I. I wouldn’t mind,” he breathes before he can think. “I wouldn’t know how to respond to any of it, I don’t know the right words for that, I think, but I wouldn’t– I don’t mind.”

Zevran’s smile has been widening from the beginning of his answer, and by the time he’s done, his expression has circled back to that teasing and almost predatory smirk that stirs something warm in Alistair’s chest. Zevran licks his lips.

“One does not need words to respond to flirting. Sometimes all one needs is a mouth, regardless of any clever words that might come out of it,” he purrs.

Alistair swallows. Oh, now he’s _definitely_ vibrating. His heart is beating too hard and his blood is rushing too fast and every nerve in his body is fired up. His own voice sounds high-pitched and far away as he begins rambling. _Always rambling_. Maker, when will he learn to at least _look_ like he’s got any wit hiding in this dumb head of his?

“Hah, yeah, I suppose that’s true,” he squeaks. “That reminds me of a story, actually. There was a girl, in Redcliffe, she worked in the stables – was it the stables? I think it was the stables – and she used to say–”

“Alistair?”

Zevran has risen, and he’s sitting again. He’s got one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent; his elbow is propped up, and he is rubbing his bottom lip. He’s smiling. He makes a noise of amusement so soft it’s contained in a breath.

"Hmm?” Alistair feels his face burn with shame and some contained feeling he can’t quite put into words, but Zevran doesn’t comment on it. He looks a little bit like he’s going to laugh, except not _at_ Alistair, but rather _with_ him, _around_ him. It’s an almost-laugh that soothes Alistair’s scramble for composure almost as surely as his relaxedness does.

Zevran licks his lips again.

“I could not more obviously be trying to kiss you,” he says, and his gaze flutters down to Alistair’s mouth, so quickly Alistair wonders if he’s dreamt it.

“Oh,” he says, weakly.

“Hm-hmm.” Zevran raises an eyebrow.

“Kiss me?” Alistair echoes.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite certain.”

Alistair swallows. There’s a frantic energy in his chest. The hair on his arms is raised. “Quite,” he repeats, “ _ouch_ , that doesn’t seem great, you might wanna reconsider those odds.”

Now he’s just stalling, he knows it. His heart is pounding hard and loud, and his mouth feels dry, and O _h Maker how did they even get there??_

“I would _very much_ like to kiss you,” Zevran rephrases, eyes crinkled at the corner. “If the idea is to your liking as well.”

“Quite,” Alistair says, and it’s barely more than a breath.

And then Zevran has moved forward in one fluid motion, and his lips are against Alistair’s, just as warm and delicate as everything else about him, and Alistair can’t breathe at all any longer.

There’s a hand on his neck. Another on his back, under the blanket — when did he slip an arm under the blanket? Zevran’s mouth is eager, his tongue patient, his teeth threatening and gentle all at once, and Alistair doesn’t think he’s breathing, but it doesn’t matter anymore, if he can just have more — more of this, more of whatever he can get, whatever it’ll take to keep these fingers on him, those lips against his, whatever it’ll take to hear that gentle groan again — did _he_ cause that groan? Did he make Zevran make this unexpected sound? Can he make him do it again? What other sounds can he make him do?

Alistair’s head spins and spins and spins, and it seems like it’s going to last for the rest of time — until there’s the sound of a throat being cleared, and a feminine voice rises next to him.

“Well, well,” Morrigan says, and it sounds so very loud in the way it cuts right through their bubble. “If we get attacked and perish gruesomely during the night, I’ll just tell the others twas because neither of you can keep what needs to be in your pants _in your pants_ , shall I?”

By the time Alistair has jumped back from Zevran, he finds himself choking loudly – and painfully – on his own tongue.

“Morrigan!” he says, and then coughs just as painfully.

Their companion is standing two steps away, one hand on her staff and the other on her hip. She cocks her head.

At his side, Zevran shifts. “If we perish, I do not see how you intend on telling anyone anything about our pants and what is supposedly not being kept inside of them.” He’s relaxed— at least Alistair guesses as much from his tone, since there is _no way_ he’ll look at anyone in the eye for at least a fortnight.

Morrigan snorts dismissively. “Tis rather lucky for you both the area is a quiet one. I will take the rest of this watch shift, before your carelessness get us all killed.”

“There, no need to be jealous, Morrigan, my friend. I am quite certain our dear Tabris will kiss you if you ask him nicely.”

Morrigan ducks her head and grumbles something that doesn’t sound very nice, but it does close her mouth quite effectively, Alistair will have to grant Zevran that. She passes her staff to her other hand, and she disappears into the darkness, presumably to stand guard from a spot that isn’t anywhere near them.

Alistair risks a glance to the side, and he finds Zevran looking him from the corner of his eye, like he sometimes does, self-satisfied smile twisting his lips. He holds his gaze for a few heartbeats, before this tentative smile turns into a burst of bright laughter, loud enough to pierce through the darkness. Alistair looks down at the blanket pooled around him, and then his breath turns into laughter as well, and, even though it’s still laced with embarrassment, it gets diluted in Zevran’s shamelessness, heartbeat by heartbeat.

When they’ve both caught their breath, Zevran is the first to rise. He holds a hand out to help Alistair up, and they make their way back to their respective tents, far slower than is justifiable. Alistair feels like one of the girls from Redcliffe who would ask boys their age to accompany them back home after the Chantry service, and who would blush and duck their heads the whole way through.

He doesn’t mind that much.

When they get close to the tents, but not so close that their murmurs will be heard, he turns to face Zevran. “Star gazing was a good idea. I feel a lot better, thank you, it helped with the nightmare.” He swallows as Zevran inclines his head and his hair sways in the moonlight. “I– I also liked what happened after,” he adds in a hurry.

Zevran’s smile is sweet. Or predatory. Or maybe both. It doesn’t really matter to Alistair. He likes that smile far too much, and he never wishes to stop looking at it.

“The feeling is mutual.” Zevran’s eyes seem to narrow. He throws his head back, defiantly, and it makes Alistair feel very small. It’s a nice feeling, all things considered. “There can be a lot more of this in the future, should you still wish to continue our, ah, conversation.”

Alistair nods frantically. “I’d like that. I’d really like that.”

And that time when Zevran smiles, all pointed teeth and knowing glint in his eyes, it is unmistakably predatory. It isn’t unkind, but rather he looks like he’s got a long list of things he wishes to do to Alistair, and is merely trying to figure out in what order he wants to inflict them upon him. And Alistair will let him. Especially if it means more kissing. And more of this mouth. More of this body. More Zevran. More, more, more.

“Good night, Alistair.”

The words fall from Zevran’s lips like the sweetest and darkest of promises. Alistair could drown on that tone alone, could feed on it, quench his thirst in the way the sound rolls off that soft tongue of his. Zevran’s teeth glint in the moonlight. Alistair’s breath catches.

“Good night, Zev.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite and appreciate feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> I reply to comments! If however you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to add "/whisper" or "#whisper" to your comment and I'll appreciate it but not respond!  
> 


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